


dear friend what can i do (said the spider to the spy)

by babblekween



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Background Relationships, But he doesn't tell the Avengers, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, F/M, MCU will have to pry WinterWidow from my cold dead hands, Natasha Romanov Deserved Better 2k19, Natasha Romanov-centric, Nick Fury sends Natasha undercover with HYDRA, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Season 2 Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babblekween/pseuds/babblekween
Summary: “You look terrible, agent,” He says.“I’m not an agent anymore,” Natasha says, lifting her shoulder in a shrug.Nick smiles mirthlessly.  “Come on,” He says, and then he turns and walks off down the hall, “Let’s find someplace private to talk.”In the wake of Project Insight and the fall of SHIELD, Nick Fury sends Natasha undercover with Hydra, and does not see fit to inform the Avengers of this decision. It's called compartmentalization. No one spills the secret because no one knows it.





	dear friend what can i do (said the spider to the spy)

_“...You have 7 unheard voice messages...”_  
  
**First unheard message from (319) 352-4120**  
  
“Hi, Nat, it’s Laura. You’re probably still halfway over the Indian Ocean… which I’m not supposed to know... but I wanted you to know that we missed you this weekend. Seriously. I’m not sure who missed you more, Clint or the kids. And, fair warning, Lila’s decided her Auntie Nat has to take her to the zoo because you missed her birthday party, so tell Fury you’re going to be unreachable next time you’re on leave. I’m not afraid to have Lila guilt-trip him. Be safe.”  
  
**Second unheard message from (319) 352-4120**  
  
“Nat, Maria told us about Fury. I’m so, so sorry, honey. Call us when you get this. We’re worried and Clint’s ten seconds from hopping on a plane to DC… Not that you don’t already know that.”  
  
**Third unheard message from (319) 352-0802**  
  
“Nat, what the fuck? SHIELD’s issued a manhunt for Captain America. _Captain America_ , Nat. I’m pretty sure Phil is rolling in his grave. What the hell is going on? Call me. I mean it.”  
  
**Fourth unheard message from (319) 352-4120**  
  
“Nat, call us as soon as you get this. You and Cap are all over the news. What the fuck — yes, baby, I know, mommy will put a dollar in the swear jar as soon as she’s done leaving a message for Auntie Nat — Nat, it’s just, I know you might now be able to, but make contact as soon as you can. Please. We can’t get a hold of Maria or Sitwell, and we’re worried. Be safe and come home.”  
  
**Fifth unheard message from (319) 352-0802**  
  
“Call me, _now_.”  
  
**Sixth unheard message from (319) 352-0802**  
  
“Answer your phone, Natasha.”  
  
**Seventh unheard message from (319) 352-0802**  
  
“Nat, I am past worried right now. Your face is plastered all over the news and the kids keep asking where you are, and—” Clint breathes harshly into the phone, but then his voice is dead calm when he continues. “I’m leaving for DC first thing tomorrow. I promise, Tasha. I’m coming.”  
  


* * *

  
Natasha’s mouth curves into a frown as she listens to the last message from Clint. She’s still in her uniform, covered in dust and debris and Captain America’s blood, and she moves away from the others that are gathered waiting for news on Rogers and stares down at the city beneath her, the Triskelion still smoking in the distance. Natasha places one hand on the glass windowpane while she uses the other to dial home ( _she doesn't program numbers into her phone, hasn't since that clusterfuck mission in Budapest_.) and she's not really surprised when the phone barely rings once before he answers.  
  
“ _Natasha_ ,” Clint exhales in relief, his voiced laced with concern, her name a whispered prayer on his lips.  
  
Natasha’s brows furrow, the only outward sign that she is anything other than 100% calm and collected.  
  
The last time she was this compromised was when Loki had absconded with the Tesseract and Clint.  
  
“Hey,” She exhales.  
  
There’s a pause.  
  
“ _Hey_ ,” Clint scoffs, amused, and then Natasha can hear him rustling around until the noise ( _Laura wants to know if she’s okay while Cooper’s cartoons blare from the television, and then Lila’s there and reminding Clint to ‘tell Auntie Nat she has to take me to the zoo, daddy, I want to see the monkeys’_.) fades away as Clint moves out onto the porch so they can talk more privately. “Radio silence for days and you open with _‘hey,’_ ” Clint’s chuckle is hoarse and thick with emotion, then he says, “Thought we lost you, Tasha.”  
  
Natasha turns on her heel and scans the motley crew of misfits that are currently taking up the waiting room, waiting for an update on Steve; Nick has vanished who-knows-where, but Maria and Sam are still here. Much like Natasha, Maria’s still in her leather uniform, covered in sweat and blood, but she doesn’t so much as twitch when she meets Natasha’s steady gaze. And Sam, well, Sam hasn’t moved from the chair Natasha pushed him into when the doctors first took Rogers in for surgery.  
  
“I’m calling you _now_ , aren’t I?” Natasha asks, mouth curved into a wry smile when Maria’s confusion clears and her mouth curves into an all-knowing smirk.  
  
_(_  
  
_Maria has insisted many, many times over the years that Clint’s codename should be Mother Hen instead of Hawkeye._  
  
_Clint is a loud, abrasive son of a bitch most of the time, but he’s also a worrywart when it comes to the people that he’s claimed as his._  
  
_And Natasha has been Clint’s since he made a different call and brought her into SHIELD._  
  
_)_  
  
“Yeah,” Clint exhales. “Thanks for that, partner. We’ve been worried,” His voice is both still and calm in a way that soothes Natasha’s own frazzled nerves. Clint’s been her anchor for years now. He’s been her friend and her partner and, for a time, her lover, and Natasha knows him better than she knows her own name. It’s for that reason she knows the silence means Clint desperately wants to ask her what the fuck happened in DC, but he’s forcing himself to be patient.  
  
In the end, all he asks is: “You okay, Nat?”  
  
No.  
  
Not really.  
  
Natasha believed she had been atoning for the red in her ledger ( _your ledger is dripping,_ Loki had snarled, stalking towards her with hatred burning in his eyes, _it’s gushing red_.) but in the end, all she’d really done was trade the KGB for Hydra. She is the furthest she has been from okay in a very, very long time, but she is chyornaya vdova, the famous Black Widow, and she is made of marble. She refuses to let anyone see her vulnerable, even Clint.  
  
“Yeah,” She rasps, “I’m fine.”  
  
“Natasha,” Clint huffs, voice fond and exasperated. “The last time you told me you were fine you had three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and nearly passed out in the shower not five minutes later.”  
  
“Clint, I’m fine. Really,” Natasha insists despite the way the dried blood and sweat has begun to make her skin itch, despite the way her body aches from the sting of her own Widow’s Bites. “I’ve just, it’s,” Natasha huffs in annoyance before turning to stare out the window once more, “It’s just been a really, _really_ bad couple of days, Clint.”  
  
“I’ve heard,” Clint drawls. “Laura said it’s trending on Twitter. She’s very proud.”  
  
“I thought #SHIELDgate was particularly inspired,” Natasha jokes but it falls flat, and she knows that Clint, who has always been able to see her, will be able to hear the tension that’s crept into her voice. Idly, she wonders if this is what having an existential crisis feels like.  
  
_(_  
  
_Natalia of the Red Room wouldn’t have hesitated to tear SHIELD down to its foundations, wouldn’t have even blinked._  
  
_Natalia had known that nothing is permanent, that regimes fell every day and she wouldn’t have wasted tears over such a fact._  
  
_Evidently, Natasha of SHIELD feels differently, feels unsteady on her feet now that the steady footing of her place at SHIELD is gone._  
  
_Natasha’s sure Madame B. is rolling in the shallow grave Natasha buried her in._  
  
_)_  
  
“Nat,” Clint presses with a note of urgency in his voice.  
  
She trembles at the sound of honest concern she hears in his voice and barely stops the small whimper before it can pass her pink-painted lips. With the loss of SHIELD, Natasha feels as if she has lost her place in the world. _‘You’re made of marble,’_ Madame B. always said, her nails like talons as she gripped Natalia’s shoulder, _‘You have no place in the world.’_  
  
“Natasha, talk to me,” Clint’s voice is calm and steady, but she can hear the thread of tension there, the way his tone hardens just before he jumps into operative-mode. Hawkeye is patient with a rifle or a bow in his hands, but not so much when it comes to people. It’s why people call Clint a loud, abrasive son of a bitch. “ _Nat,_ ” He continues, his voice as close to a plea as she’s ever heard.  
  
“This isn’t your fight,” Natasha says instead, steadying her voice.  
  
There’s another pause.  
  
“Not my...?” He almost sounds affronted at that. “Nat, I’m SHIELD, _I’m_ the one that brought _you_ into SHIELD. Your fight is my fight because you’re my friend and you’re my partner,” Clint argues, voice raised, but then he inhales sharply before he exhales and continues, “I have my flight booked, Nat. If you need me, I’m there.”  
  
Natasha absolutely hates the way her heart floods with affection at the vehemence in his words, because she learned long ago that to carry affection is to carry weakness, but she’s thankful for his friendship and to this day she’s not sure what she’s done to earn such devotion from Clint Barton. She gazes at the lights flashing through the city, and then finally says, “Clint, I need you—”  
  
“Then I’m coming,” Clint replies.  
  
“No, Clint,” Natasha says, her voice tight because she’s laid waste to this country’s intelligence apparatus and there’s going to be fallout. “I need you to stay home and let me deal with this,” She insists because she doesn’t want Clint anywhere near Washington when the lynch mob comes for her.  
  
There’s a long pause.  
  
Natasha can almost hear Clint pacing.  
  
But Natasha is the Black Widow and she knows the words that will have Clint tumbling into her web. “I need you safe, Clint. I need _all_ of you safe,” Natasha insists softly, speaking quietly to ensure she’s not overheard because she would sooner cut out her own tongue than compromise Laura and the kids. “These past few days, when my world crumbled around me, all I could think about was how thankful I was that you and Laura, that Lila and Coop, were all safe,” Natasha says. “You’re my home, my family, and I need to know that you’ll be there after... after the dust settles. I need you safe,” Natasha finishes firmly.  
  
Clint’s silent but she knows she’s won, just like Natasha knows that he knows she just manipulated him, and her mouth quirks into a small smile when she hears his defeated sigh. “We’ll be right here,” Clint vows, his voice soft, but then it hardens into what Laura affectionately calls his Natasha-tone, the one that says _this next point is non-negotiable so don’t even try it, Nat._  
  
“But if you need me... if you need _anything_ ,” Clint stresses, “You call me right away. That’s an order, Nat. Do you understand?”  
  
“I’ll see you soon, partner,” Natasha promises instead, and her smile turns into a full-fledged smirk when she hears another frustrated sigh from the Hawk, but before she can tease him about it, Nick appears in her line of sight and Natasha’s brow furrows in concern and confusion when she sees the look on his face. “Clint,” Natasha murmurs, “I have to go.”  
  
“I’ll see you soon,” Clint says but he says it like a challenge and Natasha knows that if she isn’t at the farm within the next two weeks he will fly out to Washington, his promise to stay home be damned. “Be safe, Nat,” Clint adds.  
  
Natasha clicks END and slides her cell into her pocket just as Nick reaches her side, and she cannot help the way she immediately straightens her back and flattens her expression when he looks her up and down, taking stock of her with a critical eye.  
  
“You look like shit, agent,” He says.  
  
“I’m not an agent anymore,” Natasha says, lifting her shoulder in a shrug.  
  
Nick smiles mirthlessly. “Come on,” He says, and then he turns and walks off down the hall, “Let’s find someplace private to talk.”  
  


* * *

  
Maria Hill hates waiting.  
  
She’s never been one to sit idle on the sidelines, doing nothing, while others take command of a situation.  
  
_(_  
  
_Commander Hill, the Deputy Director of SHIELD, has always been a doer._  
  
_Maria’s always been the one to take control, issue orders, and lead the way._  
  
_It’s why she climbed the ranks so quickly in SHIELD until she was Fury’s right-hand woman._  
  
_Nick Fury has been moulding for her to take the lead since the moment he recruited her into SHIELD._  
  
_She’s not sure how she is supposed to feel now that it was all in preparation for a future that no longer exists._  
  
_)_  
  
She’s also not one to sit on an uncomfortable vinyl-covered chair waiting for news on a pseudo-colleague, holding an almost empty cup of cold vending machine coffee in one hand while she scrolls through Twitter with the other. If the entire situation didn’t feel like barbed wire around her bruised heart, Maria would mock Natasha for #SHIELDgate for a very, very long time.  
  
Yet here she is, waiting for news on Rogers.  
  
Maria doesn’t stop to think about _why_.  
  
But she really, really hates waiting.  
  
Sighing, Maria abandons the rest of her cold coffee before she leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees. She rubs her face, pressing her palms against her dry, tired eyes, and it’s only because she is alone that she allows herself to display such vulnerability. Natasha and Fury wandered off nearly two hours ago and Sam has been permitted to sit at Steve’s bedside until the super-soldier wakes up, leaving Maria to pester the nursing staff for updates, sitting idle.  
  
Suddenly the scent of hot, fresh coffee teases her nose.  
  
Maria drops her hands and opens her eyes.  
  
Natasha —with a paper coffee cup with a lid in each hand, one extended towards Maria— stands in front of Maria. Her uniform, rumpled and spotted with dust and dried blood and sweat, has been replaced with nondescript jeans and tank-top and a comfortable looking plaid shirt, her arrow necklace resting against the hollow of her throat. Maria’s mouth quirks into a small smile when she notes the Yankees baseball cap that’s hiding the spy’s signature red hair ( _Natasha’s purposely chosen the Yankees baseball cap, Maria suspects because Steve hates the Yankees_ ) and it shocks her how young the ensemble makes the redhead appear.  
  
Maria accepts the cup of coffee, clasps it with both hands between her knees and says, “Thanks.”  
  
Natasha doesn’t say anything in response, merely arches an eyebrow before she uses her foot to slide a previously unnoticed bag towards Maria. It’s filled with the necessities; a change of unremarkable clothing that will make it easy to disappear into a crowd, functional footwear, and unscented makeup wipes for Maria to clean some of the blood and sweat from her skin.  
  
“Thank you, Natasha,” Maria says again, this time more sincere, before taking a sip of her coffee. It’s black and strong, just the way she likes it. Maria could hug her for it if either of them were the kind of people who did that sort of thing.  
  
Natasha eases herself down into the chair beside Maria with a slight wince, asks, “Where’s Sam?”  
  
“With Steve,” Maria answers, and then she takes a deep breath and looks down into her coffee, “Where’s Nick?”  
  
Natasha slouches in the chair, a move meant to put Maria at ease more than anything else, and stares at the double doors for a long moment before she says, “He didn’t say, I didn’t ask.”  
  
Maria nods and Natasha taps her finger against the side of her paper cup, sending ripples through the sugar-laden liquid. She’s always loved her coffee black and sweet, but she's never known where the sweet tooth came from, never known when she would have had the chance to develop a sweet tooth in the Red Room. It’s one of the behaviors she has no memory she can pinpoint when it became a habit; just another puzzle piece the Red Room has stolen from her.  
  
“We need to get in front of this,” Natasha says, “There’s going to be fallout from the data dump. There has to be.”  
  
Maria blows out a harsh breath because that has to be the understatement of the fucking decade. “Steve is safe, and so is Sam,” Maria says as she eyes the staff working on the unit, doing some quick calculations in her head. “Sam isn’t SHIELD and no is going to persecute Captain America,” He’s a national treasure, after all, “Not for this.”  
  
Natasha falls silent again.  
  
Maria arches an eyebrow, “What?”  
  
Natasha starts to say something, stops herself, then she sighs, “ _You_ need to get in front of this.”  
  
Maria pauses, then blinks, and then blinks again before she looks at Natasha incredulously, “Why _me_?”  
  
Natasha’s full mouth curves into a frown as she shifts, tightening her jaw before she meets Maria’s gaze, then says, “Someone has to get out in front of this before Congress turns this into a witch hunt. We can’t risk putting Steve in front of them, the world needs Captain America.” She clenches her jaw and a muscle in her cheek twitches, “And, in the eyes of the world, Nick Fury is dead. He intends to keep it that way, Maria.”  
  
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Maria huffs. “Why not you?”  
  
Natasha shakes her head. “I can’t afford to be the one to go before Congress and tell them to kiss my ass. My face is recognizable enough as it is after the New York Incident™,” the first six months after the Chitari invasion had been especially headache-inducing for the spy, and Maria remembers with amusement when she’d considered dying her hair blonde, “But you helped Captain America stop Hydra from releasing chaos on the world. The public can relate to you, Maria. You’re not a super-soldier and you’re not the Black Widow.”  
  
Maria narrows her eyes, hears the words hidden in that simple statement of fact. “Romanov— _Natasha_ ,” Maria corrects, “What did Fury say?”  
  
Natasha’s mouth curves into a smirk, but there’s nothing amused or happy about it. “Nothing important,” She lies, and Maria knows it’s a lie, “But given my service record, both for and against this country, I am not our best option to get the people on our side. But you? Maria, you have always been refreshingly honest and blunt. You’ve always been more of a soldier than a spy.”  
  
The implication being that Natasha is a spy, not a soldier. “Natasha—” Maria starts.  
  
But then the double doors open to reveal Sam, and Natasha pushes to her feet and walks over to the former Para-rescue Airman. “Sam,” Natasha says as she casts an uneasy glance at the double doors leading into the ICU, a cold ball of fear in the pit of her stomach when she asks, “How is he?”  
  
Sam’s mouth is a firm line when he shoves his hands in his pockets. “He’s awake,” He says, then adds, “He wants to talk to you.”  
  
  


* * *

  
Natasha hesitates outside the frosted-glass door that separates her from Steve, then berates herself for being so foolish before she moves to stand at the foot of his bed. He looks better than he had when they’d found him on the edge of the riverbank, pale and beaten and barely alive, and Natasha struggles to suppress the fury and betrayal she felt as she listened over the comms as Steve let the Winter Soldier ( _the Winter Soldier, not James, not James_ ) beat him half to death.  
  
Steve looks up at her and he looks drawn and worn out, but also remarkably relaxed, under the circumstances.  
  
Natasha sweeps her gave over him, cataloging all of his injuries in a detached manner. Cerebral edema; skull fracture and other assorted broken bones; a couple of gunshot wounds, including one to the abdomen; that had been the report they’d received from the doctor. Now Natasha can’t help but notice how the harsh, fluorescent lights draw an angry highlight to both the bruise where the Winter Soldier ( _the Winter Soldier, not James, not James_ ) drove his fist over and over as well as the angry cuts on both his cheek and lip.  
  
Steve’s face is pale.  
  
His uniform is gone, replaced with standard-issue hospital pajamas that somehow make him look small.  
  
Natasha feels that hot anger start to resurface.  
  
Steve blinks at her owlishly, then simply says, “The Yankees, Nat? _The Yankees_.”  
  
It’s the reaction she’d been looking forward to when she bought the damn thing, but she doesn’t smile, instead, she crosses her arms over her chest and rests all of her weight on one leg as she scowls at him. “Sam said you wanted to talk to me,” Natasha says, her voice cold, and she knows Steve ( _Steve, who doesn’t know a damned thing about women_ ) hears it because he winces. But Natasha can’t force herself to care because she’s so furious. She spent hours looking for his body.  
  
Some days, Natasha really misses the days when she didn’t care.  
  
Besides, some part of her already knows what he’s going to ask.  
  
She’s not going to insult her intelligence by pretending that she _doesn’t_.  
  
Mere days ago she stood in front of him in this very hospital, regaling him with the story of the Winter Soldier, insisting that the ghost story was real when most of the intelligence community refused to believe he existed, and now it turns out that Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier ( _the Winter Soldier, not James, not James. The Russians took her James from her like they took everything else_ ) and now Steve wants her help to find Barnes. 

At the very least, Steve wants her to find out everything she can about the Winter Soldier ( _the Winter Soldier, not James, not her James_ ) so _he_ can find Barnes.  
  
Steve swallows hard enough to make the tendons and cords of his throat stand out. “I have to find Bucky, Nat. I need to find him and... I _have_ to help him,” Steve’s eyes are blazing, shining blue as Natasha holds his gaze, unyielding, “I have to at least _try_. I owe him that much, Nat. He’s, he’s the only person—” Steve’s voice breaks.  
  
Natasha’s heart gives an inconvenient thump that she refuses to acknowledge, but she’s known this moment was coming ever since Steve lamented that even when I had nothing, I had Bucky. “Steve,” Natasha says, his name a sign on her lips, because she wants to help; wants to keep Steve’s guilt from killing him. Because she understands what it’s like to owe someone a debt. The desperation she sees in his eyes is the same desperation she felt when Loki had absconded with Clint.  
  
She just isn’t sure there’s anything left to Bucky Barnes left to save.  
  
_Liar_ , her heart screams at her because she wants to save Barnes just as much as Steve.  
  
_Love is for children_ , her mind snarls in response to her heart, in a voice the sounds remarkably like Karpov.  
  
(  
  
_Natasha has no idea how to tell Steve that Odessa was far from the first time she ever saw the Winter Soldier._  
  
_She has no idea how to tell Steve that she knows the exact sound of his laughter and the way his hands, both flesh, and metal, had felt on her skin._  
  
_She has no idea how to tell Steve how, after he was Bucky, but before he was the cold-hearted operative that shot out her tires near Odessa, he’d been her trainer and her partner and her lover. Her Soldat. The American is what he’d been called in the Red Room, but to Natalia, he’d always been James._  
  
_She has no idea how to tell him how, after Odessa, she very nearly killed herself searching for any trace of him because it had been the first time she had seen him in so, so long and she had been desperate to find the man she had loved before she learned that love was for children, the Red Room’s most painful lesson of all. In the end, Clint had been the one to beg her to stop, and she had been unable to say no to her partner when he’d said, “Please, Nat, you have to stop. This obsession, it’s not healthy, Natasha, it’s consuming you,” he’d cupped her cheeks then, his thumbs dragging over her cheeks when he said, “Don’t make me watch you destroy yourself. I don’t want to lose you the way Coulson lost May.”_  
  
_Natasha’s not sure she ever can._  
  
)  
  
Steve looks at her, a wild lost look in his eyes. “Please, Natasha. It’s a lot to ask, I know that, but _anything_ you can find on the Winter Soldier, anything your contacts know. I have to find Bucky. I have to—” He exhales sharply, “ _Please_.”  
  
“Steve…”  
  
Steve squeezes his eyes shut and jerks his head to the side, giving her nothing but profile as he presses his lips together and sucks in an unsteady breath. “Please,” He whispers, the single word breaking. “Please, I have to find him.”  
  
Natasha’s heart clenches again and she swears.  
  
How are you supposed to care for someone without wanting to murder them?  
  
Steve’s mouth and chin tremble, misery etching itself deep into his face and Natasha makes her decision. “I’ll do it,” She forces herself to exhale, forces her expression to remain gentle when Steve stares up at her with hope shining in his impossibly blue eyes, “But you have to do me a favor in return.”  
  
“Anything,” Steve blurts.  
  
A week, hell, three days ago, Natasha may have paused to consider just what she could purchase with Captain America’s favor. “Give me a couple of weeks,” Natasha orders and she sees the way Steve’s blue eyes flash before he squares his shoulders, preparing to fight, the same kid from Brooklyn that’s never known when to back down. “Give me time to find out what I can,” She insists, never one to cower before anyone, “And to give yourself a chance to properly heal.”  
  
“Romanov, I’m—”  
  
“Steve, I heard you over the comms,” Natasha growls and her anger is like poison pouring from a wound, and she has never been so angry with Steve as she is with her next words. “You didn’t even try and I spent hours looking for your body because I thought you were dead,” Her green eyes are blazing as she holds his gaze, and she tilts her chin in that impossibly stubborn way of hers, the one Laura insists she’s seen Lila attempt to mimic. “Give. Me. Time,” She insists.  
  
Steve grits his teeth and clenches his jaw, but he must see something in her face because suddenly he sags under the heat of her gaze. “A couple of weeks,” He agrees.  
  
Natasha nods, “A couple of weeks.”  
  


  
  
Natasha goes home and calls more favours than she feels comfortable with trying to keep her promise to Steve; favors she’s been saving for years, saving for a rainy day, but she figures with the data leak and the fall of SHIELD it’s storming like a bitch and she barely hesitates when she places a call to a contact in Kiev. “The Winter Soldier,” She orders, voice firm, “I want everything you can get your hands on, all the files related to the program. You have one week.” She then falls into her bed with her clothes still on, bleary-eyed as she responds to a text from Maria, and two from Sharon, and a truly impressive number of texts from both Clint and Laura. She’s asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow.  
  
Her phone starts ringing early the next morning.  
  
She fumbles for it, blinded by the sunlight leaking in through the curtains.  
  
“Hydra,” Bobbi Morse rages to Natasha, “Fucking Hydra, Nat. What the _fuck_ do we do now?”  
  
“Level out. Wait,” Natasha says, “There will be questions; a lot of people are going to want to talk to us.”  
  
Bobbi lets out a frustrated sigh, a habit she picked up during her short marriage to Clint, before he met Laura, “Yeah.” Bobbi agrees. Then: “You remember that place I told you about with the French fries and the best black and white milkshakes in the country?”  
  
Natasha nods, “Yeah, I remember.”  
  
“Next time we’re in the same hemisphere, milkshakes are on me.”  
  
Natasha snorts because Bobbi’s always insisted that there’s no problem in this world that can’t be fixed by tequila or a perfectly good milkshake, and then they hang-up, and the next week goes exactly how Natasha pictured it would: an endless string of interrogations and debriefings and testimonies under oath and then she watches Maria take on Congress at a committee hearing on television, just as the two of them rehearsed.  
  
“You’re not going to put me in a prison, you’re not going to put any of us in a prison,” Maria vows, resolute. “Yes, the world is a vulnerable place, and yes, we helped make it that way. But Hydra was selling you lies, not intelligence. So, if you want to arrest me for doing the right thing, if you want to arrest _Captain America_ , then go ahead. You’ll know where to find us when you need us.”  
  
Natasha’s smirk turns shark-like as she watches Maria walk out of the meeting, cameras flashing, then she sends a text to Maria (encrypted, of course) telling the other woman where she’ll be and that she’s so proud. She then visits Steve, tells him that she’ll be out of town for a couple days, but she should have the information he asked for when she returns, then she turns to Sam, tells him that under no circumstances is he allowed to let Steve start his search for Bares until she returns to DC.  
  
Sam nods once, curt, and then Natasha’s on her way to the Barton family farm in Iowa because Sam Wilson is one hell of a wing-man and she trusts him with Steve.  
  
Natasha buys a plane ticket, in cash, under a fake name before she hot-wires an old, beaten up pick-up truck that she ditches ten miles off the main highway on a deserted back road before she hikes the remaining twenty miles to the farm. Laura will mock her for it, she knows, will tell her it was unnecessary, that no one knows about the farm, but Natasha refuses to risk compromising Clint and Laura or the kids they had foolishly made her godchildren.  
  
(  
  
_Natasha doesn’t know how to be a mother, has never bothered to learn those skills since the Red Room’s graduation ceremony rendered those skills pointless, and she wouldn’t know what to do if something were to happen to Clint and Laura both and the responsibility of raising those kids fell to her._  
  
_She’s never been so furious or terrified as she had been the first time Clint had handed her an announcement card that said It’s a Boy! in ridiculous blue font before he beamed, saying, “Laur and I want you to be his godmother, Nat. Phil’s already agreed to be godfather. So, how about it, partner?” Clint smiles, then he adds, “Bobbi said she’s throwing her name in the ring if you say no; don’t do that to the poor kid, Tash.”_  
  
)  
  
Natasha has sweat lining her brow when she walks up to the familiar porch steps and, while she has no idea what to expect when she walks into the familiar farmhouse less than a week after she released all of Hydra and SHIELD’s files online, silence sure isn’t it. Noise always fills the house, whether it’s Cooper’s music blaring; Lila’s cartoons; Clint’s various power tools as he renovates yet another room in the house, much to Laura’s chagrin; Laura in the kitchen with the whistle of the kettle while something bubbles on the stove or bakes in the oven.  
  
There’s noise.  
  
_Always._  
  
The absence of it now is jarring enough for Natasha to lower her duffle bag to the hardwood floor before she makes her way through the first level, her handgun is drawn as she clears the house, her heart pounding her chest as she scolds herself for taking so long to get to the Bartons. There’s no mention of them or the farmhouse in Clint’s file, not even the one she released to the world.

Natasha knows because she’d taken precious seconds to make sure before she clicked upload.  
  
She agreed to help release all the files, compromising herself and showing the world her ledger that gushes red.  
  
But Natasha would sit back and let the world burn to ash before she compromised Clint, Laura, or the kids.  
  
Part of her wishes she was more armed and more prepared ( _not that she needs it, she’s dangerous, even wearing black jeans and a nondescript tank-top and leather jacket she’s dangerous, the Red Room made sure of that_ ) but she doesn’t need weapons because she is the weapon.  
  
_You’ll break them,_ Natalia once said as she watched the newest recruits for the Black Widow Program and Madame had shrugged, unconcerned, saying, _Only the breakable ones. But you, Natalia, you are made of marble._  
  
Natasha hears dishes clink in the sink and immediately swerves into the familiar kitchen, clicking the safety of her gun, and then she feels her entire frame when she realizes it’s Laura. She’s standing at the sink, her mouth pulled into a frown as she scrubs the rough side of a sponge against the porcelain plates that she and Clint never use; much like the crystal wine glasses and hand-painted china Natasha sees in the drying rack. Laura only takes them out when she is stressed and has run out of things to wash.  
  
Natasha’s body, taut with tension fear and another thousand emotions, slumps in relief just as Laura turns around.  
  
“Nat,” Laura breathes when she sees the spy ( _the reason for the strange tingling sensation that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise, she realizes_ ). “Oh, honey,” She says as she closes the distance between them, reaching out and pulling Natasha into her arms, feeling the remnants of tension leave the other woman’s frame. “Thank God, Nat,” Laura’s eyes water when she says, “We were so worried.”  
  
Natasha exhales shakily as she sinks into the hug, her handgun hanging limply at her side as she tries to control her heart rate. “I thought—” Her voice sounds like it’s clogged with tears and she wants to curse because she’s the Black Widow for fuck's sake. “ _Dammit_ , Laura.”  
  
Laura squeezes her friend once more before she leans back, cupping Natasha’s face between her soapy hands. “We’re fine, Nat,” Laura promises before she arches an eyebrow pointedly at the spy when she adds, “We are not the ones that decided to take on a terrorist organization while exposing all of SHIELD’s secrets.”  
  
Natasha hears the gentle reprimand and she exhales, “I didn’t hear you when I walked in.” She defends, “It was quiet.”  
  
Laura’s smarter than most give her credit for and she loops her arm through one of Natasha’s, leading the woman to the stools that sit at the island. “You know we aren’t in any of those files you released. You wouldn’t have released them if we had been, Natasha.” Laura says firmly, her faith absolute. “Hydra doesn’t know about us and no one is going to find you here,” She vows.  
  
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Natasha snarls as she slides onto the stool and watches as Laura moves to wipe down the counters once she’s done with the dishes. “I could have killed you, Laura,” Natasha hisses on a whisper as she clicks the safety on her gun before placing it on the island, always in reach.  
  
Laura snorts in disbelief as she looks at Natasha over her shoulder but, seeing her friend’s distress, Laura lifts the back of her sweater to show the hunting knife she has hidden in the band of her jeans before she lifts the dish towel to her right and revealing the Beretta that had always been in reach. “You never would have gotten a shot off,” Laura promises, mouth curved into a smirk, her cocky attitude surely a result of being married to Clint, but her words reassure Natasha. “I’m _retired_ , Natasha,” Laura reminds, “Not _stupid_.”  
  
(  
  
_Natasha’s memory of Budapest is spotty at best, she knows. She remembers receiving a text from Clint, claiming to be compromised and in need of an extraction, and she remembers finding him and having to fight a small army to escape; all of it had been an elaborate scheme to get the famous Black Widow._  
  
_Clint had three fractured ribs and two broken fingers, not to mention one hell of a laceration above his left eye, by the time they were able to call SHIELD. Natasha had been sprawled in Clint’s lap as he clamped a hand over her bullet wound, demanding an extraction, Natasha’s gun steady as she aimed it at the door, prepared for their enemy to catch up to them._  
  
_“This is Agent Clint Barton, codename: Hawkeye,” Clint said into the SAT phone, “Serial number 5-echo-02113-delta-alpha. Get me Fury.”_  
  
_Laura, a communications expert for SHIELD, answered. “Agent Barton, you missed two check-ins. Agent Hand is about to have kittens,” She said lightly, and Natasha’s mouth quirked into an amused smile. “Fury’s in a meeting with the WSC. I can get you Hill—”_  
  
_“You can put me through to the goddamn tooth fairy if it means I get an evac for me and Black Widow.” Clint practically snarls in response and then he’s slapping Natasha’s hand away from her bullet wound. “Stop poking at it, you’ll just make it worse.” Natasha blinks at him balefully but she doesn’t keep poking, watching instead while Clint pulls out a field dressing from a pouch and wraps the bandage around her side._  
  
_Natasha licks her lips and blinks slowly, suddenly feeling exhausted as the adrenaline that’d been fueling her for the last five hours starts to wear off. She’s close enough to Clint that she hears Clint taking to Hill, then back to Laura, and she appreciates the way that the other woman keeps up with Clint’s snark._  
  
_“I’ve got a lock on your location, Hawkeye,” Laura says with a calm, collected manner that manages to soothe Clint._  
  
_Natasha, of course, notices this. “You should ask her out,” She murmurs to Clint._  
  
_“Really, Nat?” Clint asks, staring down at her._  
  
_“Do you like Italian?” Natasha asks, directing her question at Laura._  
  
_Laura laughs, and Natasha imagines that the woman is grinning from her station at SHIELD because her smile is obvious when she teases, “You’ll have to play wing woman later, Agent. I’m sending Coulson and May in with a team. The extraction site is three klicks to your southwest. Coulson and May are an hour out…” Laura trails off, but then softly adds, “And I love Italian.”_  
  
)  
  
  
Laura covers the Beretta with the dishtowel once more and then she’s at Natasha’s side, slowly reaching out to rest her hand on the redhead’s shoulder so that she doesn’t startle Natasha, while doing that intense laser-focus thing she learned from her husband, the one where he looks like he’s x-raying a person for injuries. “You alright?” Laura asks.  
  
Natasha doesn’t blink when she says, “More or less.”  
  
Laura’s brow furrows as she searches her friend’s face, but then she nods and makes her way over to the sink to fill the kettle before placing it on the stove.  
  
Natasha watches Laura for a moment before she allows her gaze to wander.  
  
It could have been minutes or hours, Natasha isn’t sure, but at some point during her faze-out, Laura joined her at the kitchen island. “Here,” Laura prompts, sliding a cup of earl grey towards Natasha, settling on her own stool before she asks, “Are we going to talk about what’s bothering you, or are we going to do the thing where we make small talk and pretend nothing’s bothering you?”  
  
Natasha doesn’t look at her. “I _abhor_ small talk.”  
  
Laura blows on her tea. “That makes two of us,” She admits before she takes a small sip of her tea. Neither of them says a word, not for several minutes, and the air between fills with tension and unspoken words until Laura whispers, softly, “ _Natasha_.”  
  
“Where’s Clint?” Natasha asks eventually.  
  
“He was getting twitchy, so I asked him to run to the store to get milk.” Laura’s face twists into a comical mixture of adoration and amusement. “Little does he know, we have two cartons in the fridge.” She turns her head then, staring at Natasha, and notices that her amused smile seems brittle around the edges. “But that’s enough stalling, Nat,” She warns.  
  
Natasha turns to Laura, just her head, “I wasn’t stalling.” Natasha starts to say something, stops herself, then she starts, “I need you to do something for me.”  
  
“Anything,” Laura says, and momentarily Natasha wonders what it’s like to be so trusting.  
  
“Wait,” Natasha forces out, shaking her head. Laura doesn’t understand yet, doesn’t know just how much Natasha is asking of her. “It’s a lot,” She warns, sounding very close to tears but still oddly quiet, “It’s too much to ask of you but I’m asking anyway. And if you agree, you have to swear to me that you won’t tell Clint. Tell me now if that’s something you can’t handle, Laura, and we can have small talk until Clint and the kids come home and we’ll pretend the last five minutes never happened.”  
  
Laura’s hands are cupped around the mug in her hands ( _Natasha's amused to note it says: I'm a Mother - What's your superpower?_ ) and her next breath is more of a shudder because she feels much too exposed, like a nerve, and her head is bowed, upper body leaning forward, her shoulders tense.  
  
Laura slides from her stool and walks over to the sink, pouring out the rest of her tea and rinsing her mug before she reaches into the top cupboard for the expensive tequila, and then she’s back at Natasha’s side. “If it’s you asking,” Laura shrugs because the woman beside her is family and there’s nothing more important to her than family. She pours a healthy amount of tequila into her mug and then downs it in a single swallow before she asks, slowly, emotionally, “What do you need me to do?”  
  
It takes Natasha a minute to process that. “What?” She breathes.  
  
“I know you, Natasha.” And Laura’s delivery of that line wraps itself around the heart that Natasha had once believed the Red Room had rendered blind and deaf. “You wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Laura insists, her voice a little stronger this time when she asks, “What do you need me to do?”  
  
“Fury is going to Europe, hunting the remnants of Hydra,” Natasha starts.  
  
“And you’re going with him?” Laura guesses.  
  
“No, Fury has another mission for me. Deep cover.” Natasha’s full mouth curves into a frown as she shifts, tightening her jaw before she meets Laura’s even gaze, then she explains the nature of the mission. Fury wants Natasha to go undercover with Hydra, to become an agent of Hydra, and report back to him because all the rats didn’t go down with the ship and Fury won’t rest until all of Hydra is dead or captured. Which means it could be months, years, before Natasha can come home. It means that, for Hydra to believe she’s turned, Clint needs to believe it. “So,” Natasha continues, “When the time comes, I need you to condemn me. Set the dogs on me.”  
  
Laura exhales slowly, “Why?”  
  
“Because that’s what needs to happen,” Natasha says, “Because we both know it’s the only way Clint lets me go.”

**Author's Note:**

> At the moment I'm unsure if I'm going to continue this, but it's been rolling around the back of my head ever since I rewatched Earth's Mightiest Heroes and TWS. It was at the point I just needed to clear it out of my head.


End file.
